Allen Ginsberg, whose raw, angry verse epitomized America's beat literary movement in the 1950s and '60s, has untreatable liver cancer, his friends and a spokesman said Thursday.
I'm surprised that there is no transplant maneuver available for such a famous, and no doubt moderately rich, bastard such as our poet laureate from Patterson, NJ. Or at least close to money. Surely there was more to the poet's general health than a bad liver.
Given the nature of this post, I suppose I should step into the batter's box, and tell my own Ginsberg story. I have two, actually, a long phat one and a short all too familiar one...
Hey Bobthought you'd enjoy this from Landry, a Louisiana native, but more recently has been living, working, and playing here in DC. She's now spent a year in San Francisco...
Tim finished off your chili last night. I scarfed up a good two-thirds a few days earlier. Was pain gassed for days in gut wars...FINE chili. FINE! BABY FINE! But can't return there too soon Blum. Plum foolish to do so. Doctors orders. No, I didn't go to see one. I can just IMAGINE one giving me that guff if I swashbuckled into her tomorrow. My health is bad enough. Lower gut seems worse at times. Bad habits. Bad breaks. It's day to day. Sometimes I can string a few 24s together when I can stare myself into a set primp and just come right out and say, hey, man I feel belly riiiiight! Man oh man. But last Saturday's romp in the backyard with newcomer friends of Tim's was a bellycracker!!! Beer and more beer. I was curled & aching in the morning. Sharp bladed pains in the lower intestines. Sucked down some 'bismol and within a few hours I was into recovery, but those were the sharpest belly pains of the decade I think for me.
Problems and literary carnage. I really liked these two, Chris and Elizabeth. He's black, thin, only slightly effete, quiet but not a mute, a courier, a writer. She was an outspoken, but reserved collegiate chunk of work, friendly, engaging, uh, uh, that's all remember, oh yeah, and white. They were both readers, but completely computer illiterate. But I was quite pleased they had come over. Yes, you saw them. Now I remember.
But as quite normal with that GT combination of beerweed I worked up a roar after being pulled into the basement over the intercom by invitation from Tim. It was this Gabriel who stepped in & speed-skimmed the blowoff right away from Tim. I started proving it as soon as I squatted down on the stairs to introductions all around.
I was that immediate poet. Ginsberg was in the air, and the tale of the first time Gabriel met Sue danced from my lips. Interruptions were frequent but the tale was to be told that day. It was a glorious afternoon. But five hours later as could probably be predicted I offended Chris so the story goes...through the retelling of snatches by Tim and Sue as I say I'm only picking it up in bit and peaches...
Black memory. Total irretrievable erasure of the last 2 and a half hours. Full amnesia. I told Sue I should stay under house arrest. Even the backyard is dangerous for someone with a mouth like mine. Beer in, a deconstruction of the anger out. Although I was of course immediately attracted to Elizabeth, there was no sexual tension or tittywhomping that afternoon. Now THAT's an odd detail. But no one I talk to is exactly sure what happened to cause my current grief. Is it imaginary, or is it memorex?
Those who knowChris mostlyaren't talking, according to Tim, who claims he's wasn't there for the most part, and is unsure but seems to let a little more of the cat out of the bag with each blip of conversation we found ourselves in since the weekend, but nothing is really certain as far as I am concerned. I sent Tim off with a copy of what I wrote yesterday meant for Chris & his girlfriend in reaction to the storms in my head now that I think I offended him. I didn't know what else to do. I don't even know why I'm getting so obsessed by this whole affair anywaze. I have offended millions, why struggle to patch what seems to be a very random and insignificant afternoon?
Why do I make messes of so much in some mad-eyed attempt to bring order from chaos while at the same time stomping through the ordered halls of polite society with the parabolic fevers of a wounded elephant?
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""